Types of Darkness
by Twilighthighqueenbee
Summary: she must not only kill the wannabe vigilante rich boy, but seduce him for information. She's trained to kill, but not to please and it looks doomed until she finds out he loves violence as much as she does. A twisted, involved plan.
1. Things We Do For Money

**Types of Darkness**

**Chapter One: Things We Do For Money**

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><p>"Struggle again, and I'll snap your fucking neck in two," she said uncrossing her legs as she sat opposite the man.<p>

It must have been quite galling for him to be so totally powerless and to a teenage girl as well. He was well on his way to being forty years old and she was no more than seventeen. Pretty, with freezing cold eyes that told him in no uncertain terms if he moved again and it threatened her, she would really kill him. His expensive suit was cut in various clever places, where the flesh was softest and where it would hurt the most. The soft unused skin of his underarms was cut to ribbons.

"Once again my dear, please tell me explicitly where it is," she said looking intently through her oddly dark hair at his bloody, bruised face. "The gun, where is it?"

"Gun?" he repeated. "I don't have any gun!"

"Sometimes I wish I was born ignorant too," she sighed. "Then I'd believe you and I'd have no more use for you or your annoyingly loud family. But I'm not ignorant. I know it's here, I just didn't want to waste time ripping through your son and daughter until you break. I thought you'd want to spare them."

"You won't kill them, you're just a girl."

She stood up, slowly as if she was in no hurry. She wore all black, boots that were obviously made for a man and the black gloves made him nervous. She sauntered over to where he was tied to the chair, his hands numb from the tight knots.

"You wish you believed that don't you? How we all pray for ignorance in the end. You wish to be ignorant of your family's demise. I won't allow it until you give me the gun. Your wife is already gone. See?" She opened a white pained closet and a body fell out with a soft thump to the floor. The man yelled out in a broken way. "Now tell me where it is."

He did not doubt anymore that his children would die unless he told her.

"There's a vault behind the Van Gogh in the office, the combination is written in the back of a book on the adjacent book shelf in Black Beauty," he said, head lowered.

"Well done, you did the right thing." She snapped his neck with a loud crack and walked calmly out of the room, stepping over the bodies of his already dead children that were propped up in the hallway.

The gun was there just as he said, the combination was correct from where it was hastily written on the last page of Black Beauty. In a box it sat, unloaded and utterly unexceptional. A simple, black KAHR K9 semi-automatic handgun.

But she was used to completely boring, unremarkable objects. To the individual person they were priceless. This gun belonged to a man who now lay upstairs dead as a doornail. He used it for private networks. When things got either personal or desperate. He had killed eight people with this gun two months ago. Three of them were relatives of Tony Giovanni, and no one messed with Giovanni. The guy upstairs was small time compared to him. It had been a lousy, messed up attempt to kill a rival of his, Giovanni's cousin - Robert. Now Robert and his family were dead and the gun that killed him was recovered as a memento. Giovanni liked mementos.

But in all honesty she wasn't the littlest bit interested in mob rivals, gang shootouts or anything except getting this gun back to where the ten grand was waiting for her. Then she could go to her room, have a bath, put a bandage on the stab wound in her arm that the gate security guard had given her before he died, and then she could finally get some sleep.

She was halfway out of the door when she heard a small, choked cry from upstairs. Frozen, the gun heavy in her inner jacket pocket, she strained her ears to hear it again. Nothing, but then….there it was again. Someone was alive. It sounded like one of the children.

Sighing with annoyance, she pulled out her knife from her boot and walked silently back up the polished wood steps. One child was where he should have been, but the other one was gone - a bloody puddle where she had sat.

"Damn," she said softly. "Little girl!"

Nothing, a silence to strain to be genuine. "It's the police! Are you alone? Is the killer with you?"

A small, muffled cry. The bathroom. She turned, uncaring if she was noisy now. Police women were not trained killers. They made noise. She put away the knife and entered the bathroom, where the trail of blood became more prominent. She wondered idly how the girl was still alive.

"It's okay!" she said when she saw the girl huddled up in the bathtub which was pooled with blood from her ribs. "It's all going to be fine. Are you hurt?"

The girl sniffled, not moving and being as silent as possible. Kids were hard to figure, thought the seventeen year old. There was a slim possibility that this was the child she got second after she crept into the room, the one who didn't see her face. Her twin brother looked so like her in the dark.

"Honey," she tried in her most soothing voice. "It's alright. Backup is on the way. Did you see the man who did this?" She reached down and put her hand on the girls' face, pondering if she knew how important her next answer was.

"No, he got away," she cried.

"Okay, it's okay. You'll live. This is only a puncture wound. I'm going to get you some bandages and see where my backup is okay? You stay here!" she said. The little girl nodded.

She left the room fast, hurried downstairs so it sounded like it was urgent and then she slowly and quietly opened the door and exited. When she was well shot of the house, she made a call from a payphone to 999 in a worried, Scottish accent that there was noise coming from the Ferrata's house. She let the phone drop without hanging up and walked away into the thick silent darkness.

"But Dad! It's stupid! None of the other kids have to have a bodyguard to go to school! I fell like a total prick!" shouted the young boy from the top of the elaborate and ornately carved staircase. "I hate it! I hate you!"

"Good, good," said his father neutrally wandering past without really hearing what his son had just said. "Did you do your homework?"

"No, I paid a hooker to do it and then we sex upside down!" he shouted down the stairs.

"Good, good."

Wishing he had something very heavy to throw at his father, Damon kicked the mahogany staircase with his Nike Air trainer. It hurt and he bit down on his lip so he wouldn't yell with pain at his broken toe. "Wanker," he muttered and stormed (albeit while limping) back to his room. He had football tomorrow, and now he had hurt his foot. "Perfect," he deadpanned. "Just..."

"Perfect," said Giovanni with a please smile. The gun in his hands might have well been his first born son for the way he was looking at it. "Perfect."

"They're all dead?" asked Giovanni's panicky associate, Graham. He liked people being very dead.

Usually she would take great pride in saying yes, but what if she lied and they saw it on the news - the little girl survived.

"Far as I could see," she said with what she hoped was enough attitude to prevent him from questioning anything else.

"Good, pay her Graham," she Giovanni fondling the run of the mill gun. Graham got out a box that looked like a nail file kit and opened it. Ten bundles of £1000. "Thank you for your services."

"Always a pleasure Mr. Giovanni," she replied automatically. She took the money and left.

He was out again, walking where no one would know who he was and if they did - they would rob and kill him. He hoped they would try, he hoped someone would recognize him and word would get back to his father. Damon could look after himself, but his father didn't know that. He didn't know how old he was, let alone his training.

But fate was unkind and the streets were empty. No one saw him with grim recognition, no one wanted to start some serious shit with him tonight. No one wanted to fuck him up tonight.

His proxy father was out and about, doing 'Business' as he called it. The brothels, the dealers and the sweatshops. No one in the Daily Mail wrote about that, they wrote about the Charity Donations and the clever stock marketing. Lucky that the people at the Daily Mail liked money. Everyone in this town was for sale. Everyone.

"New job," said John the moment she got in the door. "Some kid."

"I told you, I don't do kids," she said feeling immediately even more tired. "I need a bath."

"You can have a bath when you agree to the job," he said glancing over her body. "Who got your arm?"

"Bastard security guard. You didn't tell me there was a gate guard," she said flashing him a very annoyed look.

"I didn't know. My bad, anyway - new job. Not a killing thing," he said as though this was a rare treat. She rolled her eyes.

"What then?"

"A collection."

"You said it was a kid," she said, confused.

"It is. The order is for you to get the kid out into the open after you've got the Intel," he said picking up a heavy file and passing it to her.

"Intel?"

"They said security's too tight for a pro. They need someone they won't suspect. I told him it was our specialty," he said a pleased grin.

"Great, now fuck off. I don't do Intel."

Smack!

"You'll do as I say you little bitch!" he snarled. She didn't even put her hand to her face when the red mark was stinging.

She snatched the file and opened it. "This is him? You said it was a kid!"

"He's seventeen," he explained.

She gave him a nasty look; he obviously didn't see what he had implied.

"Fine. Set it up and I'll get in. How much?"

"Two hundred," he said. She blinked.

"Two hundred what?"

"Thousand," he said. He looked like he was about to burst out of his stubbly face with excitement.

"Why so much?" she asked. Thrilled as she was to be on the receiving end of such a lump sum, it made her unduly suspicious.

"I've heard the kid is a bastard," said Jack. She watched his face, it flickered with something unfamiliar. Worry?

"What's the way in?" she asked briskly.

"Deep cover. He's young, stupid and reckless. You two should get along fine."

"Fuck you," she said almost politely. "Work out an opening. I'll get him. Brief me in an hour, I need a bath," she said and passed the file back with her broken arm.


	2. The Movable Game

The fact that pain can be controlled should never be made public. It makes stupid fat men think you can suppresses pain easily and when you do let out a yell in the middle of a ridiculously intensified training session; you're weak.

Great.

"Weakling!" he yelled looking as though she had exclaimed about a broken nail and not about the rib that was now cracked. His excitement at the upcoming job made his attacks more dangerous. Fat he might have been, but the guy could throw a good one. Before his legs were broken he was a champion boxer and after that he was a well renowned heavy man. Then he couldn't run anymore. Someone had taken a sledgehammer to both his knees and then he was no longer a heavy man. But he was still a good trainer.

"Fuck you," she spat, forcing herself not to clutch her rib. "Sideways!" she added.

"How are you ever going to be of any use to me in this state?" he snarled. He so knew how to play her. She straightened up, hunched her shoulders and narrowed her eyes. Now in the clarity of anger she saw his punch coming a mile away. In the time it took her to duck it and sweep his legs from underneath him (a low trick) she already felt better. He looked pleased, uncaring that it was a low blow because he was a cripple.

"Better. You always must remember to use any advantage you can to win. Morals are obstructions. Don't entertain them," he said repeating himself for as long as she had known him. Her knuckles ached as she looked down at them. They were rough, like sailors skin from the bare knuckle fights.

"You said this was an Intel job. If it's Intel why does my training have to go up a sodding notch?" she asked, rubbing the sandpaper skin that covered her bony, hard knuckles.

"Be prepared for anything," he reeled off what was probably a list of answers to that. She liked training but it was so frequent that she questioned the necessity of it. The cold, dark warehouse she trained in was as familiar as the small dark flat she lived in with John. Everywhere were steel bars and scaffolding where someone had obviously tried to do it up a bit, but then given up.

"Fine. Want to go again?" she asked politely.

"No, train alone for an hour. There's a small job later on, basic threat and a favor for a mate. Makes me laugh that people are so careless when having affairs. Won't take you long," he said wiping his hands on his jeans. "Get fish and chips on the way home."

"Hey baby, looking' for a good time?" Despite her alluring voice, nothing about her appearance promised a good time. Damon sneered, his contempt of the hookers made hopefully evident. Why were they never beautiful? Always old, broken and desperate.

"No," he said bluntly. "Where's my father?"

She squinted in the yellow light the lamppost afforded. "Damon?" she croaked. "Ah, your dad went ages ago. Went 'ome," she said lighting a cigarette habitually.

"Fine," he said expressionlessly. He left her leaning against the lamppost, and walked towards the train station. That was a good place to find trouble. The junkies were always lurking around there looking for someone to mug. His father had expressly forbidden him from ever going anywhere near there, so it seemed like a great idea. The darkness became thicker and more concentrated as the streetlamps became fewer and fewer until it was only one for every fifty meters. No one was bothered if this area was well lit, in fact; it was better if it was hidden.

He saw the outline of the tall, dark train station and heard the silence all around it. Maybe they already knew he was here. He walked, not taking care to be quiet. He wanted them to know he was here. Then he did something really stupid, he whistled a tune.

The silence became more strained now. They were all around him, knives at the ready.

The first one to jump him was a bearded man with a crazy look in his eyes. He was yelling wildly as he landed on top of Damon, who allowed him to do so. He held the knife high above his head, with intent to plunge it down in to Damon, but as he went to do so Damon's hand came up and caught his wrist. With a seemingly simple movement, he snapped his wrist and the tendons contracted. The man screamed and Damon pushed him off. The others dived in on top of him and Damon smiled.

The knife came out, blood spurting everywhere as it always did upon removal of the penetrative object. Blood surrounds the wound instantly upon internal damage which is unfortunate, but not wholly damaging. You can wear gloves, or a leather Jacket (because blood washes off of leather without a trace). But it does make your nose wrinkle up in disgust when it happens. The warm, thin blood running all down his front, eager to obey gravity, is undeniably gross.

He died with a look of confusion. He thought he wasn't supposed to die. No one ever thinks they will die, not really and when they do it's this huge thing. When at last his eyes went blank and cold, she stood up and brushed herself off. There was only a small splatter of blood on her gloves which she kept on until she was clear of the house.

Sighing with disinterest, she thought about where to go for fish and chips. The only good one, where the chips weren't ropey, was by the train station. It was a dodgy area, but she would be alright. No one messed with her, and she left them alone. Junkie territory or not, they all knew not to get involved.

She pulled off the white, thin disposable gloves and threw them down an open drain. She walked for ten minutes in silence; two people passed her without glancing at her twice. Humans could be so ignorant of what was all around them. They never noticed anything that wasn't explicitly made evident to them. But that was the thing about her; no one ever suspected she was a murderer or anything like that. They looked at her and though 'young girl'. No one thought her capable of killing cold bloodedly. That's why she was so effective.

The Fish Bar was open for business, the owner looking out into the night with a tight face. Generally, she didn't blame him. Having a business so near Junk Ville must have made him nervous.

She was about to go inside when she heard scuffling. Immediately her hand jumped to her pocket where she pulled out the knife, ready for whatever it was. Her muscles tensed and her eyes were focused. But she realized after a moment, that it was coming from the station. She walked into the deep darkness and she could hear the noises getting louder. The junkies were mugging someone who was stupid enough to go near where they 'lived'. This was standard procedure to walk away, put the knife back and get some fish and chips. But for some reason she didn't, she was walking towards the source of the noise. Why? She knew she shouldn't, but somehow her legs had other ideas.

The noise was as she predicted. Some boy was being attacked by about seven men, although why he wasn't dead yet was unclear. They must have all had knives. He was trying to fight them off. Then she was walking with purpose towards the fight and grabbing one of them.

She stuck the knife in the back of his neck and he dropped to the floor, dead. She then got hit in the face unexpectedly. She felt her jaw click painfully and angered by the pain she side kicked the guy who had hurt her. He fell to the floor with"Oof!" and dropped down to her knees and stabbed him in the side of the head. Now there were just two left, the boy had got rid of the other three somehow. She blocked a punch from one and pummeled him in the head until he fell down.

She repeated the action with her knife and just as she was about the go for the last one she got hit in the face again. This time it was the boy. Instinct wouldn't allow her to be hit without hitting back in a fight and she punched him in the mouth. He let out a yell, and went to hit her again but she blocked it, caught hold of his arm angrily and was going to snap it backward, effectively breaking it - when she felt very tired of it all and decided not to.

"OI!" she shouted, still holding his arm. "I'm helping you!"

"I don't want your help!" he snarled, yanking his arm back. "Who asked you to interfere?"

"Fine," she said with blank shock. "Next time I'll leave you to get murdered and robbed, in that order." She began to walk away when she snorted with laughter.

"You think I would have been killed?" he said.

"It looked that way," she said, still walking away.

"I can take anyone in this dumb town," he boasted.

She stopped walking. "Right, is that why you were getting pounded?" she said nastily.

"I was not!" he said heatedly. "I was getting into it, and then you came along and ruined it!"

"What are you? Suicidal? If you want to die, go jump on the train tracks!"

"I don't want to die," he sneered. "I want to fight someone who'll be a challenge!"

She eyed him in the faint yellow light, he was about her age, well built, sturdy looking. He had dark kind of hair, angry eyes and was about 3 inch taller than she was. He did not look like a trained killer, so what was he on about?

"Who do you think you are?" she asked incredulously.

"Damon Salvatore."

Her eye widened marginally with what he supposed was shock. She knew who he was, or at least knew who his father was. A lot of people knew the name Salvatore in this town.

"Damon?" she repeated, making him confused. She should have repeated his second name.

"Yeah," he said wiping blood off his bottom lip with his sleeve. "So?"

"Nothing," she said and began walking away again. Her black hair whipping around her face as she did. He followed her, unable to place the anger he felt at her interruption. He wanted her to understand that he had not needed her help.

He wanted to ask how she knew how to do that with the neck and who she was. But what he actually said was "You fight like a girl."

"Well observed," she said not stopping. "Now fuck off."

He was going to follow her, but he didn't. He felt tired and suddenly wanted to be at home, So he walked the other way and let her go into the fish and chip shop, wiping the blood on the leather coat as she did.

"No problems?" asked John, munching into the fish and chips as though he had not eaten in a week. He smothered them in salt and vinegar and look up expectantly at her. She was looking down, avoiding his question and his eyes. "Well?"

"No," she said. "None."

"It was on the news tonight, that family - all dead. But how did the girl come to be in the bath?" he asked, pulling a bone out of his mouth.

Her breath caught in her throat with the unexpected reminder. She thought quickly. "She was in the bathroom when I got her, she fell back into the bathtub," she replied casually. He nodded, taking this to be true. She remained as calm as she could, controlling her emotions although she knew she was bad at it. Whenever she was around John, she felt clumsy and stupid. They had discovered this at an early age and it was why he never accompanied her on jobs.

"The fish is tasteless," he said, one bite away from finishing. He swept the paper onto the floor where it joined myriad other bits of crap. Cleaning was not a priority in this place.

"You done the reading?" he asked, licking his fingers which had remnants of salt and vinegar. "On the kid?"

"Yes," she said tightly. She was still trying to cope with the fact that she had just met him. It meant trouble. Flawed plans, an angry mentor and a strategy that would not work. "I read it all, not to worry."

She had to bump into him, befriend him. It was a stupid cliché but people often fell for it and judging by his file, he would not begrudge a friend. It had to be planned and executed carefully. His night-time activities were mentioned in the file but she did not expect it to be this advanced. Vigilante Delusions. How boring. In the harsh light of the bare light bulb hanging in a lonely way from the ceiling, she began to think of a plan that would not involve getting caught or failing. She did not know how well he had seen her or if he would recognize her.

"Why are you not eating?" he said suddenly, making her start. He was greedily eating her chips which she was in no mood for.

"Go ahead," she sighed and passed them to him. "I just want a bath. All I wanted was a bath."

"Okay, enjoy it," he said distractedly scoffing the cold chips.

"Right," she said wincing at the idea of the hot water hitting her arm and her ribs.

A stray, mangy looking cat was sniffing hopefully at some dustbins but unless he enjoyed needles and rags, he was in for another hungry morning. But lo, a rat scurried by brazenly. He went stock still while the big fat rodent trotted along, confident of his security in life and then without warning the cat pounced violently and painfully. It clawed him in place and bit him until it died, then it feasted upon it's pray triumphantly.

It was seven thirty in the morning. A cold, misty grey morning which made everyone depressed when they looked out of their high-rise windows. The radio told them in a bored and routine voice that seven people were found dead last, motive unknown. It was said in the same tone as the weather report.

Damon eyed the variety of breakfasts before him on the large oak table in the breakfast room. The maid, Adriana, was fond of cooking huge meals in the hope that everyone would plumped to her size and she would not feel so alone in a town driven by sense of style.

Eggs. Fried, over easy, scrambled, omelets and two hard boiled with soldiers. Bacon, sausages, beans, two kinds of toast, pancakes with three syrups, waffles with Belgian chocolate sauce, and croissants with creamery butter, strawberries and oranges peeled and sliced perfectly. Six kinds of cereal, tea, coffee, orange juice, Coca Cola and at the end of the table as far away as possible, a half of a grapefruit.

It was ridiculous! No human being could ever eat that much. He supposed it was because she didn't know what he liked and in honesty he couldn't explain it to her properly that he only liked Orange juice and toast because he didn't speak Portuguese.

He grabbed a bit of toast took a swig of orange juice and shouted "I'm leaving now!" His father didn't answer, but he was not talking to his father anyway. Down the massive marble hallway came Rolando. Rolando was gigantic. You would never mess with Rolando if you could see him and Damon supposed that was what made him so effective as a bodyguard. He was six foot five, large and meaty but Damon had seen him move like a Russian athlete before. He wore a black suit and sunglasses like something out of a stupid film with Kevin sodding Costner. He would drive Damon to school, lurk around there all day and then drive him back again. Sound good? It's not. Other kids in school, rich or not, will not be pleased that you have a bodyguard trailing after you. Damon was made fun of all day long because of it. Whitney Houston songs were sung non-stop in the hallways and Damon didn't blame them. If he was them and some other poor bastard had a bodyguard because your dad was Mayor of the town he would probably rip the shit out of them too.

"Ready to go Mr. Salvatore?" Rolando asked, scanning the perimeter unnecessarily. The house was miles away on the edge of town. The only places there were trees and fields. It was not a dangerous area.

"Sure," he said carefully hanging his schoolbag over his shoulder so he wouldn't wince at the pain in his collarbone. It was badly bruised. He wondered if it was broken. "Let's hit it Rolando," said Damon. "Another glorious day."


End file.
